


Sherlollipops - Lucky

by MizJoely



Series: 221 Sherlollipops [148]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 12:49:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6285124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An overheard insult behind Molly's back spurs Sherlock into a different perspective of his pathologist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlollipops - Lucky

**Author's Note:**

> Got bit by another plot bunny, sigh. This one is almost ‘rot your teeth’ fluffy, but not quite. Thanks to asteraceaeblue for reading it over and telling me how to correctly load an autoclave (hint: NOT like a dishwasher)!

“One thing’s for sure, Molly Hooper must be the best damn poker player in the world!”

The words themselves aren’t disparaging, but the nasty laughter that follows - two men, two women including the one who’d spoken, all four low-level clerical employees - certainly is. It takes what could be misconstrued as a compliment and turns into an insult. One he’s relieved Molly isn’t around to hear, although he’s mystified as to why he should care how the words of people she’s only acquainted with through work might affect her.

He doesn’t forget the words, exactly, but he puts them aside to consider later or delete if necessary (although, ironically enough, he can’t recall the last time he deleted anything having to do with Molly Hooper). They don’t return to his mind until he’s been in the path lab, seated behind his favorite microscope, for a good hour.

During that hour Molly’s been bustling in and out, sometimes with information he’s requested (okay, demanded but she knows him by now, knows that his demands really are meant as requests), sometimes with items pertaining to her own research. The last time she returns, however, there’s a noticeable sag to her shoulders, and her usual cheerful greeting isn’t forthcoming.

A greeting he’s always insisted she doesn’t need to voice, but one he immediately misses when she walks over to the autoclave and begins loading a tub of glassware to place inside. “What’s happened?”

Instead of snapping at him to mind his own business or asking how he knows something’s happened at all, Molly simply shrugs, not bothering to turn and face him. He has, however, turned to face  _her_ , and again he questions his own motives. Surely he can obtain an answer without him taking his eyes away from the very intriguing mold spores he’s studying!

“If I say ‘nothing’s wrong’, will you go back to your microscope and leave me in peace?” she says crossly.

He raises an eyebrow; Molly getting waspish with him isn’t an unusual occurrence these days post-Magnussen (and post-slapping him silly for using that case as an excuse to get high), but Molly being unwilling to unburden herself to him certainly is. It’s become a thing they do, ever since Reichenbach; if he’s not acting like himself (but not obviously high, which he’s proud to say he hasn’t been since stepping off that plane after his four-minute exile) she asks him what he needs and he tells her. If she appears to be having an off day, he asks her what’s happened and she tells him.

He doesn’t like this change in routine, not at all. If anyone else had given him the option of returning to his research and not boring him with their personal (read: non-case-related) problems, he would have taken it.

But not where Molly’s concerned. “You can say ‘nothing’ all you like, but I won’t believe you. And since you won’t allow me to deduce you anymore, the only way I’ll find out the truth is if you tell me.”

It’s another thing they do, this one an agreement explicitly spelled out by her as a condition of their continuing friendship when he returned from rehab three months previous. He is not to deduce her, ever, either in private or in front of others.  _Especially_ not in front of others. He’s done it twice now and humiliated her both times, albeit unintentionally the first time, when he was frustrated with the Adler case and the whole Christmas thing and being _social_.

She sighs and he waits attentively, aware of her capitulation. She straightens her shoulders, places her hands on the counter as if to brace herself, then turns to face him. Eyes meeting his, she speaks. “I went on a date with a doctor from paediatrics last night. When I texted him a little while ago to let him know I had a lovely time - my words exactly, before you ask, and yes, that’s all I said in the text - he gave me some vague response about how ‘nice’ it was, then fed me a bunch of rubbish about how busy his schedule’s become and how he’d have to table any future dates indefinitely.” 

Her mouth sets in a hard line before she continues, her hands now stuffed into the pockets of her lab coat; he can see their outlines, how they’re balled into fists. “In other words, Molly Hooper has once again proven to be unlucky in love.”

With her words the meaning of the overheard conversation from earlier becomes clear. “Lucky at cards,” he murmurs, not meaning to say the words aloud.

Of course Molly hears him, how could she not? “Yep,” she says bitterly. “Only problem is, I’m terrible at cards, too.” She looks over at him. “Mystery solved, question answered, can we get back to work now?”

He nods, watching as she turns back to the autoclave. He tries to refocus on the mold spores, but they’ve lost their appeal and he’s not sure why. He’s learned the answer to two separate - well, not mysteries, exactly, but things that have caught his attention today, and that’s normally good enough for his mind to settle on other things. Things like interesting mold spores that might or might not be pertinent to a cold case he’s been investigating on Lestrade’s behalf.

_Lucky at cards, unlucky in love._

_Molly Hooper must be the best damn poker player in the world._

The two phrases tumble through his mind, over and over, distracting and disturbing him until he finally gives up on the mold spores in favor of retreating into his mind palace for a little mental housecleaning. Time to put his errant thoughts in order.

When he emerges fifteen minutes later (far longer than he thought he’d spend there, far shorter than it should have taken considering the personal revelations he’s so unexpectedly discovered), Molly’s left the lab again. He notes the absence of her notes and coffee cup and deduces (it’s not going against either the letter or the spirit of their agreement if he deduces things about her in her absence, at least not in his mind) that she’s finished and has returned to the morgue. Or else she’s decided to leave early, as less than an hour remains of her shift.

He carelessly shoves aside the slides he’s been studying, in a sudden hurry to catch her if she has, indeed, opted to leave early - then turns back to them, Molly’s voice sounding sharply in his mind.  _Oh no you don’t, Sherlock Holmes; clean up after yourself, I’m not your housekeeper_ or  _your landlady!_

By the time he’s finished tidying up to what he knows are her standards, another ten minutes have passed. Pulling his mobile out of his pocket, he goes against his long-standing policy and punches in her number, holding the phone to his ear and waiting impatiently for her to pick up as he heads toward the bank of elevators.

 _“Sherlock? What’s wrong?”_  She sounds concerned rather than irritated, which is good because of all times he doesn’t want her to be irritated with him. Not today, not after discovering what he’s discovered.

“Nothing’s wrong, I just wanted to make sure I caught you before you left.” The elevator dings and he enters before the doors have fully opened, stabbing his finger on the button for the sub-basement level and waiting impatiently for the doors to slide shut again. It’s taking too long, everything’s taking too long now; one leg is jittering restlessly and he’s tapping the fingers of his free hand on his thigh as he speaks. “Shall I meet you in the morgue or the locker-room?”

 _“Sherlock, you can’t come in there, not after what happened last time!”_ Still not irritated; there’s actually a bit of a laugh in her voice as she reminds him how he was nearly reported as a stalker by a new maintenance worker who caught him entering the ladies’ locker-room off the morgue. Looking for her of course. That had been right before John and Mary’s wedding. _“Meet me in my office. I still have about a half-hour left of my shift.”_

“Right,” he says, as if he’s forgotten. But that’s the point, isn’t it? He  _hasn’t_ forgotten, neither her schedule nor anything else about her. Ever.

A few minutes later he’s hesitating, standing just outside the partially opened door, observing what he can see of her through the narrow gap. She’s writing something down in a notepad, frowning at it as she leans forward enough for her face to show, then giving a satisfied grunt as she turns back to her computer monitor. Her face disappears again, and all he can see is her hand and part of her leg. It seems apt; as much as he’s observed her in the past he’s never really seen her. Not all of her, not like he’s suddenly seeing her now. Well, not  _this_ her, the real her, but the her that exists in his mind palace.

The ‘her’ that’s apparently taken up permanent residence there, queen of all she surveys.

“I had nothing to do with it,” he blurts out as soon as he works up the nerve to push open her door and sweep into her office.

She raises an eyebrow as she looks up at him. “Had nothing to do with what?”

“The cancelled date,” he clarifies. “I mean, the cancelled potential future dates. It had nothing to do with me.”

She’s staring at him as if he’s gone mad, a dawning suspicion in her eyes that he hurries to squelch. “Not high,” he assures her. “You can test me right now if you like.”

She sighs and leans back in her chair, her sudden tension eased somewhat but her expression still pinched. “Right, then, not high. But I’m not sure why you felt the need to reassure me you had nothing to do with Jasper not wanting to go out with me again. We’re long past the time when you had to show off how clever you were by deducing my dates.”

“Right, yes, that’s true,” he agrees, because it  _is_ true. Not since ‘Jim from IT’ has he done anything that callous, at least not to her.

“So what’s this about, then?” Molly asks patiently.

He clears his throat, rocks back on his heels, folds his hands behind his back. During the short time it took him to arrive here from the path lab, he’d concocted and discarded a dozen different scenarios with which to present his findings and conclusions, and continues to be completely at a loss as to how he can broach the subject.

“Sherlock, I do have things to finish up,” she reminds him when he remains silent for almost thirty seconds. 

He looks at her, the big brown eyes and upturned nose and the half-smile on her (not too small) lips. She’s wearing her hair parted on the side and pulled back in a simple braid and she’s lovely and he’s never told her so. Not once.

Better late than never. “You look beautiful,” he says, the three words simple and sincere. “You always do.”

“Oh, well…thank you,” she replies, but the line between her eyes deepens and he recognizes her confusion.

“It’s just that…you’re in my mind palace,” he says.

“That’s…nice?”

It comes out questioningly, of course it does, so he searches for the words to explain. “Not just you, lots of people are in my mind palace of course. But it’s just…I’ve never deleted anything to do with you, and I never realized it until today and as soon as I realized it I was forced to understand  _why_ I’d never deleted anything. No, forced isn’t the right word, that makes it sound like it’s something I don’t want, when nothing could be further from the truth.”

He turns and she’s right there in front of him, one hand outstretched, catching his arm and bringing him to a stop. “What truth, Sherlock?” There’s a cautious sort of…something…in her eyes. Hope? God it had better be hope or he’s about to bollix things up royally, destroy their friendship or at least put up walls between them he has no interest in erecting.

Then she smiles and says the magic words, the words that calm him, that let him know he’s doing the right thing. “Sherlock. What do you need?”

“You,” he replies, all the tension draining from his body as he speaks that single word. He reaches up to brush his fingers across her cheek, trailing them down her neck until they come to rest against her shoulder. “Only you.”

He lowers his head and their lips meet in a long-overdue kiss that is everything he’d always suspected it would be. In one word: perfect.

As they’re leaving Barts they walk past a cluster of four young members of the clerical staff, two men, two women, who stare at them. As well they should: Sherlock’s arm is around her shoulder, hers encircles his waist, and he knows their expressions can best be described as ‘utterly besotted’.

He pauses when one of the women titters disbelievingly; he recognizes that laugh. He looks them up and down, visibly deducing their various shortcomings even if he doesn’t give voice to them.

Instead, he pulls Molly closer and says, “Gossiping in the halls is a terrible habit, you never know who might overhear you.”

They glance at one another uneasily, and he can hear Molly disguising a laugh as a cough. He makes as if to leave, then turns back to them. “Oh, and by the way?” He smirks at the stunned foursome. “Molly Hooper is without question the  _worst_ poker player you’ll ever meet.”

Then he strolls away with his pathologist tucked under his arm, knowing his point has been made - and that his future is far brighter than he’d ever thought it would be.

 


End file.
